


and all the paths led on

by eudaimon



Category: Temeraire - Naomi Novik
Genre: Alternate Universe - World War II, Canon Queer Relationship, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-11
Updated: 2012-12-11
Packaged: 2017-11-20 22:13:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,378
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/590209
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eudaimon/pseuds/eudaimon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The moments before they leave are always the quietest; before an action, Granby and Temeraire share a quiet moment to talk about why they fight.</p>
            </blockquote>





	and all the paths led on

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Shpilkus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shpilkus/gifts).



> I racked my brains on how to fulfill this challenge and came up with this - a World War II AU. Has slightly canon spoilers through to the end of 'Crucible of Gold', if you squint. The title comes from the poem, "Memory" by Siegfried Sassoon.
> 
> Happy Yuletide!

_Bring me the darkness and the nightingale;  
Dim wealds of vanished summer, peace of home,   
And silence; and the faces of my friends._

 

*

On the wall of the covert, they write ENGLAND EXPECTS THAT EVERY MAN WILL DO HIS DUTY.

And, by God, she does.  
So they do.

* 

Last night there was dancing, cheap booze in tin flasks and balloons in red, white and blue. Dancing. Lots of dancing, with pretty girls with pins in their hair and bright red lips. Dimly, he remembers William Laurence blushing and Jane Roland throwing her head back as she laughed. No bright lips for her. He finds himself still reeling a little as he picks his way through the guy ropes. He’d left Little’s bed a little over an hour before, with a kiss and a brief fumble. Immortalis isn’t to be involved in this action, and so there must be parting, until tomorrow at least.

Please God, only until tomorrow.

It’s always quietest in the hours before the raid; aviators are pensive and the dragons are focused on learning mission maps and formations. It’s always there – that fear that this raid might be the last. The dragons do their best, of course, and every last man and woman, boy and girl, of their crews would die for them. Still, Granby can’t help but feel like all of it might be futile. That they’re living on borrowed time. But you trust to hope. 

In his room, Granby’s got a battered copy of a book of Sassoon’s poetry. Difficult not to take that sort thing to heart at times like this, words like _look up and swear by the green of spring that you’ll never forget_ \- he grew up in a coal black place, but this part, this England, is so green. The last time that he came through, Tharkay had sat down to drink coffee and he’d told Granby that this war was going to have no poetry written about it, not like the last one had. Granby had asked him how he knew and Tharkay had shaken his shaggy head, rolled one shoulder in a shrug.

“Because we forgot already,” he’d said. “And we’ll forget again.”  
And what else are they going to do? No other way but on.

“Granby?” he hears as he ducks through a curtain and into the smoky air. “Granby, is that you?”

Iskierka’s a little further head, but he can pause and spend a little time with Temeraire. The last time he saw Laurence, he was shaving, so it should be long before he’s down. Granby walks around the corner and sees Temeraire. He might have Iskierka now, like his living, beating heart made flesh outside of him, but there is a part of him that’s always with Temeraire, the way that there’s a part of him that’s always going to be with Laurence, come what may.

“It’s me, love,” he says. “Right here.”

He makes his way into the clearing, wandering closer, putting out one hand without thinking about it to touch the dragon’s snout fondly. He’d lied about his age to sign up, been in the Corps since he was much too young and now he’s come to the point where he really knows nothing but dragons. The world is wide, fiendishly complicated and cruel but Granby knows what he’s about when it comes to dragons. He knows where he fits.

“Are you well, Granby?” asks Temeraire, cocking his head to peer at Granby with one great, golden eye. “Iskierka was concerned that you might feel rather the worse for wear this morning, but I told her that you and Laurence had more sense the night before a raid.”

Granby thinks that _Laurence_ probably had more sense, but he wasn’t about to say that much to Temeraire.

“I’m perfectly well,” he says. “Thank you.”

They do not spend as much time in each other’s company as they used to, of course – Granby’s no Lieutenant anymore and he’s got Iskierka to see to. Still, he often seeks Temeraire out; once crew, always crew and it’s been a long, long time since he made it back to Newcastle. So he’ll take what he can get.

“Will it be long, do you think?” asked Temeraire, looking up at the sky doubtfully. “I do hope it won’t – all of this waiting doesn’t agree with me at all.”

Granby grins.

“Iskierka doesn’t like it much either,” he says. “But we’ll be off soon. Luftwaffe won’t wait for us, will they?”

Temeraire sighs and nudges Granby with his nose. They lean together, Granby’s arm resting companionably against Temeraire’s scales, his fingertips stroking softly. There’s movement in the clearing now, ground crews come to check harnesses and load armaments. These few moments of quiet are nearly over and, soon, Granby will need to hurry to Iskierka’s side. She came out of the egg hollering for vengeance and that desire hasn’t been lessened by these long years of war. Sometimes it seems like this cloud will be over Europe, over the whole world, forever, and whole generations will be born and die without knowing peace.

He never knows where these gloomy thoughts come from; he shakes his head to clear then.

“Why do we have to do it, Granby?” asks Temeraire, almost plaintively. “Why must we fight? Not that I am afraid, of course – I would never be afraid but, only, it does seem like the most appalling _waste_.”

Granby nodded.

“We fight because somebody must, love,” says Granby. “And we won’t be them.”  
“Won’t be who?”  
“Those good men who do nothing.”

“Oh,” said Temeraire, and Granby could tell that he’s mulling it over. “I suppose that that makes good sense.”

He didn’t sound entirely convinced.

“He’s right, my dear,” says Laurence, appearing at Granby’s elbow, uniform immaculate, freshly shaved and that composed, concerned expression that Granby has grown so used to fresh on his face. “And it’s nearly time to go, John.” 

“I suppose it must be,” says Granby. He gives Temeraire one last pat and pulls away, hand coming up to squeeze Laurence’s shoulder.

“Stay safe, Will,” he says, with a smile that feels hard-won, right in that moment. “If we lose the formation just…make sure you make it back.”

They’ve had this sort of conversation before – different words but always the same sentiment. Whatever they say, it all boils down to one thing – whatever the words, they all mean _try not to die_.

Laurence’s hand is on his arm. His grip is strong and Granby’s reminded of how much he’s always trusted him, except for five minutes right at the start.

There’s a siren, a warning, crying out across the pleasant afternoon. Granby risks one more look, at Temeraire and Laurence and then he turns and all but runs, to a clearing where Iskierka is waiting, stamping and steaming in her harness.

“Shall we go, Granby?” she asks, turning her head to see him more clearly and he reaches carefully between spines to stroke her neck.

“Right now, sweetheart,” he says. “You remember the flight-plan?”

She rolls her eyes at him.

“Of course I do,” she says, shooting steam indignantly and _this_ is why his uniform is never as smart as Laurence’s. “Do come on, Granby.”

Swinging aboard, he settles himself in his customary place at the base of her neck, hooking on his carabineers, holding on with his left hand. His crew is lighter than Laurence’s. They settle around him and then, with a powerful beating of her wings, Iskierka all but throws herself into the air. John Granby has never been a praying man but he does believe in luck. He’s always believed in luck.

What he knows is this: that, if his luck holds, one day, there’ll be babies, or one baby at the least, a son or a daughter to love Iskierka as he does. Hopefully, by then, there will be no war and no more hurt – they will come through whole, or almost whole and, by then, everything will have figured out a way to grow again. 

But, for now, there’s this. Only this – England expects and they will do and leave the rest to hope.

The Luftwaffe are waiting.  
And, below them, so far below, the battered green of spring.


End file.
